Cold
by LoveChilde
Summary: Sinclair has a cold. As with everything on B5, it's far from simple.


Cold  
  
(A/N- I blame Joannie. She asked for Sinclair torture, and got this. No spoilers, none of it is mine. It all belongs to JMS and TNT and others. Making no money.)  
  
It started with a headache and a sleepless night- neither one unfamiliar to commander Jeffery Sinclair. He could count on one hand the full nights of sleep he'd had since taking command of Babylon 5. Tonight, however, had been blissfully uninterrupted by dreams or crisis, which made him even crankier, really. To be deprived of a good night's sleep, not by his job but by a pounding head and a strange inability to breathe properly was truly unfair. He rose eventually, silenced the unnecessary alarm, and went to find something to relieve the pain in his head.  
  
Garibaldi looked at his breakfast companions ruefully. Ivanova's temper before coffee and several hours to fully wake up in was the stuff of legends by now, but Sinclair pushing his food around and not talking was unusual, even after the most hectic night. "Rough night commander?"  
  
"Hmm? No, not really." Sinclair replied absently. His throat and ears had decided to join the party, and everything above his shoulders hurt. His mood hadn't improved much either. "Just a bit under the weather."  
  
"You should see doctor Franklin before it develops into something nasty." Ivanova, now on her third cup of coffee, recommended. Typical Russian pessimism. Sinclair dismissed it with a wave of his hand.  
  
"It's not that bad. Besides, I have a busy day. I'll go if I have a free minute." All three of them knew that he wouldn't. With negotiations, squabbles and a flow of alien and human dignitaries going through the station, the commander had very few free minutes.  
  
As the day progress, Sinclair felt worse and worse. He used the advantage of being head of the station and being allowed to keep painkillers- moderate ones- in private stock. He was careful to keep a clear head, which meant the meds were never quite enough. The day passed in a blur of meetings, talks, a snatched lunch on the run, and more meetings. His last appointment of the day was with ambassador Delenn and her aide, a simple update of Minbari affairs and interests- what they were willing to tell him. Those were usually kept short. He sat through it, concentrating half of his mind of Delenn and half on berating himself. A cold! How could he have gotten a cold in space? People were usually inspected for diseases before boarding B5, but someone must've slipped by the checkup. While most of the known alien species were immune to human-type diseases like the common cold, the station housed several unknown ones. The last thing he needed was an epidemic.  
  
Busy with these thoughts, he didn't notice Delenn was talking to him rather than at him until she said his name again, and he turned far too sharply to look at her. She scrutinized him, then frowned. "Commander, are you not well?"  
  
"I'm fine, ambassador. Nothing to be concerned about." He belied his own words with a huge sneeze. Lennier jumped about a foot in the air, which would've been funny if Sinclair's brain hadn't been trying to escape his skull. He hunted around for a handkerchief, finally locating a box of tissues and blowing his nose, startling Lennier even more. Obviously Minbari never did anything so unaesthetic as catching colds. He tried to reassure the young aide he was alright, but Delenn stopped him. Lennier lowered his eyes, certain that he'd somehow given offence yet again.  
  
"You're ill, commander." Delenn stated calmly. "You should go to the medlab, and we should stop bothering you." She drew Lennier with her gently, and Sinclair could hear her talking to him in their own tongue, probably explaining that no, Sinclair wasn't going to explode any time soon. He buried his head in his hands and managed not to moan. He couldn't afford to be sick now. Or ever. I'll be as sick as I want- when I retire, he promised himself.  
  
Random good luck got him through the rest of the evening without running into any of his senior personnel. Day's end found him ensconced in his quarters, nursing a cup of tea, something that was supposed to drive away headache and fever, and wrapped in his rattiest, most comfortable clothes. At last, he felt nearly human again. He even dozed off for a while.  
  
Until the urgent call came in around one in the morning. Sinclair replied before fully waking up, out of instinct, and had to ask the communications tech to repeat his words before he fully understood them. "Sir, both ambassador Mollari and ambassador G'kar want to speak with you urgently." The tech said uncomfortably, "They sound pretty angry."  
  
Sinclair was not a man given to swearing. So he did it very, very quietly now. If he looked as rumpled as he felt, he was in no condition to handle inter-racial aggression. "Patch it through to my quarters- conference screen." He said, sighing inaudibly. He made an effort to tidy himself up. Of all people, of all times, it had to be Londo and G'kar. A moment later, they were both onscreen, glaring alternately at each other and at him. He made an effort to be polite. "Gentlemen. How can I help you?"  
  
"You can start by ordering this murderous cretin off the station without a ship, for a start!" Londo screeched, waving his hands expansively. All four ambassadors looked obscenely awake, neat and furious. All four? Sinclair shook his head- his temperature was climbing again. G'kar snarled.  
  
"Shut up, you disgusting, overbearing slug! It's you who should be floating outside!"  
  
Sinclair stifled a slightly insane urge to throttle them both. "Could one of you please explain what happened, gentlemen?"  
  
"That creature who calls himself an ambassador tried to kill my aide!"  
  
"I did no such thing! I was merely-"And they were off again, an infuriating babble of shouting. Sinclair had quite enough of it.  
  
"Quiet!" He silenced them both, feeling his throat catch on the yell, "We'll discuss this in the morning, if you don't mind. My office, eight o'clock station time." The last time he'd set up a meeting, Londo arrived three hours after the appointed time and claimed he was still on Centauri time. No more. They started to protest but he cut them off tersely, "Good night, gentlemen."  
  
He turned off the screen, but there would be no more sleep for him tonight. He was already wide awake. Sighing audibly this time, he pulled out a large pile of station updates and started catching up on his ever-present work.  
  
Station dawn found him still awake, after a long, hot shower that worked wonders- for all of fifteen minutes. The very thought of breakfast made Sinclair shudder, so he skipped it and went to find Vir and question him- alone. An impossibility, as it proved. By the time he managed to convince Londo that he absolutely had to talk to his aide privately, he had both ambassadors in his office, and keeping them waiting wouldn't work in his favor this time.  
  
"Vir, what exactly did G'kar say to you?" Sinclair asked tiredly.  
  
"Nothing much, really." The Centauri shrugged, "He made several allegations about my family, and expressed a wish to destroy our home planet. It's not very different from what he usually says." He didn't give his opinion as to his superior's accusations, but his expression said eloquently that'd he'd rather forget the whole thing. Sinclair nodded.  
  
"Thank you, Vir." He re-entered his office and leveled a flat glare at the ambassadors. He had no energy for this mess, now or in general. Mostly now, though. "Alright, gentlemen. Let's get this over with. I've reviewed the evidence, and..." A wave of dizziness made him pause. Deep breath, continue, "Sorry. As I was saying, while G'kar's words were perhaps hasty and unkind- "Huffs on both sides of the table, another wave of dizziness, "I don't see a reason to turn it into an interstellar incident." Not good, not good, he had to get them out of there...Hold on Jeff, don't lose your cool. Your rep as a diplomat is on the line. "I'm sure if ambassador G'kar promises to keep his opinions to himself in the future," No point in asking him to change them, after all, "Ambassador Mollari can do the same." Nearly over, thank God. "Are we agreed?" His gaze said they'd better agree, or else. Reluctant nods and another shrug from Vir. "Excellent. Now, I'm sure you both have better things to do today than squabble in my office."  
  
Sometimes politeness can really work against you. It would have been polite to stand up and walk them to the door. It would've been polite and diplomatic to say a few words to soothe ruffled feathers before sending the ambassadors out. If Sinclair had managed any of that, it would've been good. As it was, his intent, at least, was to see them out and be diplomatic. The execution, however, was cut short as another wave of dizziness attacked just as he was making the first step, and darkness engulfed him.  
  
He came to seconds later in an undignified heap on the floor of his office, with two concerned and very alien faces over him. If he hadn't been used to them, he'd have panicked. Before he had time to, though, he could hear them arguing.  
  
"He's probably dead. You know what humans are like. We should leave before someone sees us."  
  
"Idiot, he's not dead. He's breathing. We should get him down to the doctor."  
  
Londo and G'kar. Of course. It had to be them, again, of all people. Damn. Sinclair blinked and tried to push himself upright. Another bad idea- the room tilted wildly and he nearly retched. Londo pulled away sharply.  
  
"Commander, are you alright?" G'kar asked kindly but unnecessarily.  
  
"Fine, fine. It's just a cold. I hope." The room stopped moving for a second, and Sinclair stood up before it started again. Londo took another step back.  
  
"You're sick? And you had us here? Why didn't you say so?" He took Vir by the arm, "We're going. I do hope you feel better soon. Very soon." His leave-taking was far too dignified to be called a run. Sinclair looked at G'kar, trying to focus on the right one and clearly missing.  
  
"I think you should go down to your medical facility, Sinclair." The Narn said. "Do you need help?"  
  
"No, no...I can handle it." I hope. As G'kar left as well, he stood in the middle of the room, not quite trusting himself to walk out and risk falling on his face in front of everyone in the station. Luckily it was only a short walk from his office to the elevator down to the lab. An endlessly long one now, it seemed. He couldn't do it. Very, very slowly, he made his way back to his chair and tumbled into it, not missing by purest luck. He leaned his elbows on the table and cradled his head, hoping for a quick death, since nothing better seemed on the horizon. Help, when it came, made death look all the more tempting.  
  
"Commander?" Ivanova tapped on his open door, "Ambassador G'kar said you might require some assistance-"She stopped when she saw him. "Oh. Medlab, now."  
  
G'kar- that traitor. Sinclair would find a way to make his life extremely unpleasant. Soon. When he felt better. "I'm fine." He tried, "Really."  
  
"No, you're not. You're sick, you passed out in your office, and I don't think you could get to the medlab yourself even if you wanted to."  
  
"I have a station to run- I can't go." He said plaintively. It wasn't fair.  
  
"You can and you will. Now come along- or do I have to carry you there?"  
  
He gave her a suspicious look, "You can't."  
  
"Maybe not, but Garibaldi sure can. Should I call him?" She raised her link hand suggestively and Sinclair shuddered. His head cleared a little and he could think straight, al least for now.  
  
"Don't. I'll come peacefully." He stood up with as much dignity as he could muster.  
  
"Good. Here." She helped him drape and arm across her shoulder, mostly dragging him along. A quick peak out into the hall later, they were making their slow and blissfully empty way to the elevator.  
  
"I am going to say I told you so." Ivanova said conversationally, anchoring him when he tried to pass out again, "But not until I'm sure you'll remember it. A few days, probably."  
  
"Thanks." Sinclair sighed with relief when the doors whooshed open into the medlab, and allowed himself to crash into a conveniently placed bed. "See ya." Then darkness, again.  
  
Ivanova pulled Sinclair's legs up onto the bed. "Can't carry you? Right." She was, however, truly worried. People passing out usually meant bad things, especially if nothing else seemed amiss. "Doctor, can you take a look at him?" Personally, she meant. She knew he'd have done it anyway. Doctor Franklin ran a scanner up and down Sinclair's body.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"You know he's been a bit iffy the last couple of days, and you know what he's like when it comes to taking care of himself. He crashed in the middle of a meeting with ambassadors Mollari and G'kar." She reported, businesslike, the added more quietly, "Will he be alright?"  
  
"Yes." Franklin pulled a face, "He won't be happy, but he'll be alright. It's just a 'flu, which he's neglected into something nastier than it could've been. Just bed rest, something to counter the symptoms, and tea, really." He started moving the bed into a side room. "However, I'm going to keep him here for a few days of solid rest. No leaving bed, let alone his room, for any length of time."  
  
Ivanova's mouth twitched into a smile against her will, "You're right, he won't be happy. But he needs it pretty badly."  
  
"Can you handle the station for a few days?"  
  
"Sure. I hope. We'll be okay. Need a hand with him?"  
  
"Not before he wakes up, and even then not really. Feel free to visit him, though. But be nice."  
  
"When am I not nice, doctor?" A glint of mischief in her eyes hinted at a slightly unconventional definition of 'nice'. Franklin shook his head and shooed her out of his medlab. Then he looked at Sinclair and half-smiled.  
  
"Let's see what we can do to make you more comfortable, shall we commander?"  
  
The relative comfort of a proper bed allowed Sinclair to sleep for nearly half an hour before the bone deep knowledge there was something he had to do forced him out of happy darkness and into the cool, not-too-strong light of the infirmary. It took him a moment of panic before he realized where he was. As his other senses kicked in, he could hear the bustle of people on the other side of the curtain surrounding his bed. He noticed his cubicle was equipped with a bedside table holding a glass of water and a pile of tissues, and availed himself to both. Further exploration of his situation was cut short, though, as the curtain shielding him was pushed back slightly and Franklin entered. Sinclair sat up and glared at him.  
  
"Doc."  
  
"Commander. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Fine." He lied. There was something definitely wrong with his voice. "Whatever you did, it helped. I'll leave now, and go back to running my station." He would've, too, but as he sat up he noticed cold air where cold air wasn't usually present and looked down. "Doctor, where are my clothes?"  
  
"Over there in the cupboard." Franklin indicated it with a tilt of his head. It looked miles away. "The moment you can go there and get them you're free to go, sir."  
  
"This is ridiculous, doctor." Sinclair would've sounded a lot more commanding if his voice wasn't giving out on him, dwindling into a croak. "I have work to do."  
  
"What you have, commander, is the 'flu. And you're staying here until I give you a clean bill of health, or you could do permanent damage to yourself."  
  
Damn it all, Sinclair felt too bad to argue. Fine, he was sick. He was human. So what? "I hate being sick." He groaned.  
  
"You'll hate it even more before it's over. Here," the doctor handed him two pills, "can you swallow those?" Small and white, they looked fairly unthreatening. Sinclair swallowed once. Ow. He tried a sip of water and winced.  
  
"Don't think so."  
  
"Right." The doctor nodded and took the pills back. "It's just something to make you sleep easier, and take down your temperature. Lie down again, I'll be right back."  
  
Sinclair did, looking under the cover to confirm his earlier finding. A hospital gown. Revolting, but at least it was closed in the back and didn't have bunnies on it. On closer inspection it actually had little drawings of the station on it in light blue. Better than bunnies, but not by much. Franklin was indeed back a moment later, holding a hypo. Sinclair pulled a face but turned his neck obligingly, closing his eyes against the tiny sting of it.  
  
"Good. Now sleep, commander. If you need anything, buzz." He showed him the button. Through a fading haze, Sinclair nodded and allowed himself to drift off.  
  
"You're kidding me."  
  
"Do I ever kid, Michael?"  
  
"Point. He's really sick?"  
  
"Yes, he's really sick." Ivanova sighed, "Is that so hard to believe?"  
  
"Guess not." Garibaldi shrugged. "OK, so now what?"  
  
"Doc says he has to stay in medlab for a few days, rest and heal, and then he comes back. It's really very simple, Garibaldi."  
  
"And you take care of everything in the meantime?"  
  
"No. We take care of everything in the meantime. If nothing goes wrong, it should be a breeze."  
  
"If nothing goes wrong." Garibaldi repeated. Ivanova nodded. "I'll go put up storm shutters." Sinclair slept 20 hours straight, and woke up feeling not one ounce better for it. In fact, he felt worse. But at least he wasn't so tired anymore. After about half an hour of enjoying that, he decided he'd really much rather sleep until he was better again. The smiling nurse by his bed didn't make him feel any better.  
  
"Commander, good morning. How are you feeling?"  
  
"I'm sick." He whispered, "And I can't talk."  
  
"I see." The nurse was still smiling. "Doctor Franklin said that you should drink this," she pointed to a mug, "And take the pills if you can. Would you like something to eat?"  
  
"No!" Sinclair shook his head violently, then grabbed it with both hands when the room started spinning. The nurse was luckily quick enough with a basin to avoid really impressive embarrassment, but he was still fairly miserable once his stomach was well and truly empty. He gave the mug a suspicious look- anything to get the taste out of his mouth, but..."I'm sorry. What is that?"  
  
"Not a problem, commander. Happens a lot. It's tea, I think." She sniffed it, "Yup, tea. Still warm, but not too warm."  
  
Tea. Sinclair liked tea. Tea's good when you're sick- his mother always made it. He took a cautious sip. It hurt, but not as badly as he'd worried, and there was something in it that soothed the burn almost immediately. Probably honey, but where had the doc got it? Never mind, he didn't care. By the time he finished drinking, he was tired again, which was really to his benefit. Going through basic hygienic processes with another person assisting goes much better when you're only marginally aware of it. Soon, he was back in bed and half asleep again, without even the benefit of medication this time. His last thought was about the station- was everything alright? But since he was still in medlab, and the medlab still existed, he assumed all was well.  
  
Things could've been better.  
  
It wasn't just the countless minutiae of running the day-to-day workings of the station. Ivanova was quite used to that, having done it often while Sinclair was otherwise occupied. It was the ambassadors. All of them, calling with well wishes, asking when they could visit, claiming to have urgent business that could only be addressed with the commander himself.  
  
"It's as if they don't understand the concept of being off-duty for a couple of days!" She complained to doctor Franklin, trying to keep all three data pads from falling from the pile she had them in. "How long do I get him for?"  
  
"Half an hour. No longer- he's still pretty fuzzy, and I won't let you wear him out. And I'll take that." He reached for the chocolate balancing on the pads. "Believe me, I'll give it to him when he can appreciate it. It would just make him nauseous now."  
  
"Fine, fine." Ivanova groused, "Half an hour to update him on the last two days. Hell, we'll manage to fit in some knitting, too!"  
  
"Knitting?" Sinclair asked. His eyes were clearer, his temperature was down, and though he still couldn't make the long journey to the other side of the room, he was feeling better. "I thought you had more important things to do."  
  
"You were right. How are you?"  
  
"Better, I guess. How are things out there?"  
  
"Everybody sends their regards, over and over and over again. G'kar wanted to come personally and apologize for leaving you alone in your office, but the doc says you're under quarantine from non-humans. I think it's as much for your benefit as for theirs."  
  
"I suspect you're right. Ok, what have you got for me?"  
  
The half hour was long over by the time Ivanova was done with the urgent stuff, and Sinclair had given his input and orders on several issues. He blinked a couple of times, then yawned. "I'm sorry Susan, I'm beat. Any more?"  
  
"Nothing that can't wait 'til you're better." She looked at the two remaining data pads wistfully. Hers to deal with on her own. "Garibaldi promised he'll come to see you after shift if the doctor allows it, and Delenn said something about Minbari being immune to the 'flu, so she might come as well."  
  
"With any luck, I'll be more suited to company by then. Are you sure everything's okay?"  
  
"It's fine, commander. Take all the time you need- the station keeps rotating even ith you here." Ivanova gave him a Look, and he nodded, agreeing, at least for the moment. He waved her away, hoping the situation would stay peaceful for just a few more days.  
  
After two days in medlab, Sinclair was about ready to start climbing the walls out of boredom. He'd caught up on what seemed like a year of missed sleep, his eyes couldn't focus enough to read comfortably yet, and the cupboard, though realistically close now, was still not an option. After a small swarm of visitors- all of them wanting to make sure he wasn't dying, it seemed- nearly overwhelmed the room, Franklin declared no more would be allowed, except for Garibaldi and Ivanova on station business, and only once a day. That left 23 hours a day to be filled. Sinclair was bored beyond belief.  
  
At least on Earth they have vid-screens in private rooms, he thought irritably, glaring at an empty wall in front of him. He didn't feel sick anymore- as long as he took his meds and didn't try to sit up for too long. Damn this stupid 'flu. Finally, after counting the stripes on the wall for the millionth time, Sinclair sat up. Very slowly. Even more slowly and carefully, he swung his legs over the side. Then he took a break, until the room settled back into more or less normal dimensions. Knowing he was minutes away from being checked on by a nurse, he stood up. Too fast- he wobbled and sat back down.  
  
I need my clothes. He thought fiercely, giving the cupboard a baleful look. I will get my clothes. With his eyes closed, he stood up again. Better. Holding on to the bed, then the wall, he took a few tentative steps. All clear. As long as he didn't see anything, he was okay. Now, to the cupboard...  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
Uh-oh. Busted. Sinclair opened one eye, then the other, and looked at Franklin. Just his luck- the doctor had decided to check in on him personally. "Getting my clothes and leaving." He replied flatly.  
  
"Really? I don't think so."  
  
"Well, I do." Sinclair said mildly, "And it's my legs doing the work, so I doubt you can disagree. I need to get back to work, Stephen."  
  
"Not until you can actually do that work, commander." The doctor was, once again, as immovable as a rock. "Now get back to bed."  
  
Well, he was kind of tired again. "But..." No point. He looked down. "Fine. But I have to get back to work tomorrow."  
  
"We'll see." Franklin walked over to give him a hand. He needed it quite badly.  
  
When, a day and a half later, he finally managed to walk to the cupboard, get his clothes, and get dressed, he was almost too exhausted by the effort to be happy about. But he did leave a short message on his pillow for the next check up- 'Feeling much better, thanks for the excellent care, going back to work. JS.'  
  
He didn't go back to work. He went to his quarters, had a long, long shower, ate real food for the first time in four days, and fell asleep in front of the vid screen.  
  
The next day when he walked into his office, Ivanova was there. She looked up at him. "You're still on medical leave, sir."  
  
"No I'm not." He said. "I'm back, whether the doctor likes it or not. Did I miss anything?"  
  
Silently, Ivanova gestured at the truly impressive pile of data pads covering his table. He walked around it to look at them. "Just that? Slow business."  
  
"That's the priority one items, sir." There was rueful humor in Ivanova's voice, "The rest are in the mainframe, by order of entry. Are you sure you don't want to still be sick?"  
  
"Yes, lt. commander. I'm very sure." She vacated his chair and he sunk into it with a sigh of pleasure. "Oh, but don't tell anybody yet. I want to clear most of these before I get swamped with meetings again."  
  
"Good idea." She nodded. "By the way?" He looked up, "I told you so."  
  
"So you did. I sit corrected." He sighed. She grinned at him, then coughed and cleared her throat. "You should get that looked at, Susan. Before it develops into something nasty."  
  
At her horrified look, he started laughing, and didn't stop until she was long gone. Maybe being sick wasn't really all that bad. 


End file.
